The Second War for Independence
by Clecky
Summary: General Malcolm Reynolds was getting tired of war.


Author's note: Set post BDM. Largely inspired by the book "The Killer Angels" by Michael Shaara. Another probable multi-chaptered fic, as soon as I finish the last one... stupid plot bunnies. And books.

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General Malcolm Reynolds was getting tired of war.

Hadn't there been a saying, back on Earth-that-was, about how if anyone ever fought a third World War, the fourth would be fought with sticks and stones because mankind would have destroyed itself so throughly? Who ever had said that was right with one small exception- man had learned to fly all the way to other worlds. According to T. H. White, the author of The Once and Future King, flying should have ended all wars altogether and erased all borders to boot; too bad it had instead provided a stunning new scope and scale to old conflicts. Mal was convinced that he'd spent too much time reading for want of anything better to do during this damn war. Long whiles of boredom mixed with moments of intense terror.

"News from the front?" He asked the runner, a young woman who was trembling in his presence.

"Yessir! I'm from Gen'ral Cobb, sir. He presents his compliments and asks for more air support. Sir." The woman flicked her eyes away from his; Mal snorted. Obviously she'd edited the request and might have left out something important.

"Talk to Inara, will you?" He waved his hand in the direction of the tent. "Tell her exactly what Jayne said." With a nod he dismissed her and put her out of his mind. Jayne could hold until 'nara told him what the runner had left out. Trust Jayne to actually send a runner even when communications weren't down. It couldn't be urgent.

"Mal." Simon rode up, dismounted, and let his horse graze loose at the end of its reins. He didn't say anything more. He hadn't talked much at all since River had killed nearly a platoon of Feds before getting shot down herself. Mal wasn't quite sure that he was still sane.

"Simon." The boy had also stopped answering to the title 'Doctor'. Thankfully he hadn't stopped doctoring altogether. In fact he'd built Mal a competent, functioning medical corps that was one of the main reasons that the Second War of Independence wasn't already over. It was when he wasn't doctoring that Mal worried about him- and who'd have thought Mal would worry about anyone anymore?

"What's going on?" Kaylee addressed Simon while ducking out of her own small tent.

"Jayne's sent a runner." Simon replied shortly. Kaylee gave him a sad kicked-puppy look and he flinched away like she'd shot him. Mal shook his head. Kaylee was still headed for heartbreak, Simon was already there, and there was nothing but nothing he could do about it. Better to worry about beating the Alliance. That thought was old, timeworn, and as impossible as the planet spinning backwards.

"How's the engineer corps, Kaylee?" He asked, straightening up and stretching out painfully. Damned rain, and mud, and cold. Simon watched him disconcertingly as she brightened up slightly.

"They're shiny, Cap- General. Got all the ships working right. I think they're turning out spare parts right now, or maybe guns."

"Good girl. Have them make some more ammo, or steal some." He grinned at her, absentminded, and strode over to the picket line to get his own horse ready for the day. He might not move, but it paid to have the horses ready, and he was old and stubborn enough to make sure his was able to carry him off at a moment's notice. If only he could desert, just ride away. He was such a big damn war hero, though, that without him there might be no war at all. And that he could not abide. He had to do his fighting in person, damn it all to hell.

Simon heeled him like a guard dog. No, there was nothing he could do for the boy. He'd been broken throughly; Mal had seen the same thing in the first war. Nothing left to fight for. A dangerous way to live. Possibly better and safer than having a cause, though. Another runner approached, this one familiar and taxed with relaying communications from others to HQ that needed a reply from Mal himself. He stopped brushing out his horse long enough to listen to the request.

"General Alleyne reports that she's holding well, sir. She requests more provisions and ammunition and any reinforcements if they happen to be lying around." The runner sniffled, wiped his arm on his sleeve.

"Tell the mechanics to send her some of the food reserves- stuff as can get wet without going bad. And have the mechanics send over some ammo- half the reserves. Zoe uses a lot of shot, and her boys can carry what they don't use." Mal ordered. The runner nodded, shuffled away. Simon quickly and efficiently stripped his horse of tack, fastened it to the line, and picked out a new one.

"Mal?" Inara poked her head out of the command tent and looked around. He nodded to her, waved a hand at Simon. The boy peeled away, trailing his new horse, and spoke quietly with her while Mal finished prepping his horse. Soldiering was a young man's game and he was getting far too old for all this.

He met Simon halfway between the tent and the picket lines. Inara had already gone back to work. Organizing an army was a difficult task for anyone, especially a woman trained for something completely different. She'd learned fast, after his first chief of staff was killed trying to lead the army. He'd never thanked her, not really. She could be long gone by now, if she hadn't wanted to stay. He couldn't change his ways now- too late to teach an old dog new tricks.

"Jayne can't hold without dedicated air support." Simon reported. "He doesn't need resupply, yet, but unless he gets backup he'll have to fold, give up the high ground."

Mal shut his eyes and thought. "Have the Bird Dogs send over the armed skiffs we captured. They've been repainted, right?"

"Yes, sir." Simon said and got on his new horse. Mal didn't watch as he rode away.


End file.
